


It's Arthur

by Oboeist3



Category: Ghost - Mystery Skulls (Music Video), Mystery Skulls (Band)
Genre: Coming Out, Gen, Trans Arthur, Writing In Verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-15 08:25:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3440315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oboeist3/pseuds/Oboeist3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Arthur's eighteen when he tells them."</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Arthur

Arthur’s eighteen when he tells them.

He figures it’s

standard

off to college in a week.

Bags packed.

Words prepared.

He’s wearing a t-shirt and jeans.

Usual attire.

At least he caked on some

makeup

to loosen his mother’s tight smile.

Dad’s foot taps an

impatient

two-four rhythm

before a loud sigh.

"What’s this about, Anna?"

It takes a

stronger

person than he not to flinch.

His mouth opens.

The words do not tumble.

Do not flow.

They unstick like

flies

in paper.

"It’s Arthur."

His mother looks up

from her precious cell phone.

The two-four tapping stops.

"I beg your pardon?" she says

her voice shrill

and he remembers Grandma

whispering about her daughter-in-law

being a kettle.

"That’s my name. I thought it would be good. For your

son.”

Each word is curt

like the lemon tarts he

was never supposed

to eat.

It’s his father who

stands up first.

Eyes burning bright

blue flames.

Jaw tight.

"Do you think this is funny?"

It’s not really a question.

Merely a thin layer

of civility

disguising the threat.

Still

he likes it better than the

sugar-sweet disappointment

written on his mother’s face.

"Honey, you’re confused."

He shakes his head.

"Not anymore."

Her facade drops faster than

a bullet train.

A split second of

hatred

before the smile returns.

"Please, sweetie, don’t be like this. We can help you."

There’s a first for

everything

it seems.

"I don’t need help." he says

throat dry

knees knocking.

A defense of paper maché.

"Listen to your mother, An-"

"It’s Arthur!"

He SHOUTS.

A cry of the desperate.

"Young lady, that is no way to speak to your father!"

Shame-laden words

oozing

out of his mother’s mouth.

"Apologize this instance."

Fingers curl.

Teeth grind.

It takes more than

everything

to keep his head up.

"No."

The fire in his Dad’s eyes

seems to leap into

his lap.

It burns

but really

he should have known.

"Get out."

There’s no curtain this time.

Jelly legs make the journey

last too long.

Water drips on the handle

of his pink flower suitcase.

(Funnily

he’s always liked it.)

He wishes he didn’t look

back as he opens the door

heart on his sleeve

clattering

to the ground.


End file.
